Tribulation
by Define X
Summary: Magic never died out. Though the practice faded away, a spark of magic was carried in one person and passed to the next. Unaware of her legacy, one girl, born where she can never truly belong, wishes only for a chance to use her gift and know what it means. When bestowed new life, she'll either learn what power can be or surrender to its mere shadow. No slash or non-canon pairings.
1. Land of My Fathers

**It's been a while... well, anyone who's been watching me, welcome back! I've had so many stories I want to work on that I had to just **_**pick **_**one and decide to finish that. This one won, obviously. ;) **

**I'll only be putting up one disclaimer, so don't blink: I do not own **_**Merlin **_**or anything else. All canon is property of BBC. **

**Speaking of canon, I may or may not have some things that are historically inaccurate, but let's face it - **_**Merlin **_**isn't all that correct, so let's just say I'm going by that universe and I'll use whatever details I want. Unashamedly. :) Oh, and there is, of course, no slash here. **

**Without further ado... enjoy!**

* * *

**All I feel is strange, in your perfect world.**

Tokio Hotel** – **_Strange_

* * *

**1817, America**

A young girl near the age of six, tiny and fair-haired, sat motionless in the dirt, watching little tops spin round and round, cutting pleasing little tracks around in the thin, yellow dust. The grime gathered on the hem of her faded, sack cloth dress. It used to be printed with pretty blue flowers, but those had long since disappeared into the brownness that seemed to wash into all her clothes.

She was huddled in the shadows of the corral, where her momma couldn't call for her to get out of the dirt and do her chores. More importantly, her daddy wouldn't see her now that he was home. He didn't seem to much like her – not even the sight of her. After all, why else would he spend so much time out with the horses or with the hands in town?

Maybe he had seen how queer she really was.

Maybe he knew.

None of these thoughts made her sad or distressed, as she had thought them many times before. It was her life.

The tops wound down, tightening into a crazed spiral before wining to a stop and falling over pitifully.

They suddenly picked up their dance again, looking to the naked eye to have been plucked up by strings, or perhaps an unnatural flare of wind.

The girl's eyes faded back from white-hot gold to their usual, pale grey.

And she watched her tops spin.

**1982, Britain**

A woman with thick, dark hair and excessive red lips was seated in first class, waiting for the aircraft to take off, something that was _apparently_ going to take a terribly long time. Didn't they realize she had a schedule? One didn't become the most respected woman in her business by disregarding deadlines. No matter; she would merely use another airline the next time she had to be somewhere of importance. She must make of a note of this when she had the time. Satisfied with that thought, she sat back, careful to leave her pantsuit in perfect crispness. A woman of business had to look professional, even if she must be late through the fault of others.

She flipped carelessly through the flight instructions from the back of the seat with one hand and flicked her hair back with the other, the heavy gold bangle on her wrist clacking loudly. In this motion, her matching – and equally heavy – earring dislodged itself from her ear, dropping from her chest to her lap, and then to the floor. It then rolled backwards, and she lost sight of it. She refrained from curling her upper lip in frustration.

Pretending to lean down and dig in her purse, she quickly ducked between her knees and caught sight of the jewelry several rows back, hiding behind several pairs of shoes. Her eyes narrowed.

Just as quickly as it had rolled back there, it shot forwards, nestling in her hand as if it were a fitted magnet.

She re-pinned the accessory to her ear, her smug grin not hidden nearly as well as the vicious gold spark that she concealed behind her closed eyes.

She then sat up and folded her hands in her lap primly, again the mask of indifference settling in.

One did, after all, have to remain professional.

** 1759, Africa**

Heavy eyes closed. It hurt to keep them open.

A dark, dirty man lay down on a poor cot, the shade of the thatched roof overhead doing little to curb the increasing burn of the pitiless sun. Sweat ran from the line of short, graying hair down his clenched temples, and his cool hands gripped his sides, going limp and then clamping together again, over and over.

Compared to many others, he supposed he had lived a fine life. He had lived this long. He had no wife, no children to mourn him, but earlier in life that had meant that he would have no one that he would fear losing. That was what he wanted; not necessarily to be alone, but to be able to live without the fear of being alone.

And now he was. Alone.

It was all right, though. It was how he wanted it.

He didn't understand – he had been good and well the day before, even strong and vigorous. He was not even feeling older at all, except perhaps the slight creakiness in his bones early in the morning. But today, he could not get up, could not make himself disregard this pain. It felt like his body was giving up a battle that his mind was still fighting. He was not too old – or at least, he didn't think so. Another bout of pain clawed at his belly, and he had to devote his entire mind to the effort of breathing.

It could have been hours, it could have been days. It may have all passed in a silent second.

He opened his eyes once more, with the intensity as if it was his dying wish, and then slowly, slowly, the life began to fade from his face.

His eyes dulled, and his tense muscles went slack, easing his body deep into the coarse material of the cot.

For the final time, his deep, black eyes flickered a sun-lit gold.

And then he was gone.

**2021, America **

Young Sicily stared into the bathroom mirror, willing her wide, startled eyes to turn colors again. They had done it just a second ago, and, though it scared her, she was drawn to it.

A few minutes later, after some experimentation, she came to the conclusion that she couldn't make the eyes change by just looking at them, but by moving something on the counter – an easy task – they flashed that mesmerizing gold. Delighted, she did it over and over again, happily entertaining herself. Moving things just by thinking about it had been unbearably fun, but this… This was just amazing.

She heard her sister's loud music thrumming from the next room over. Sicily wondered if she should show her older sibling her eyes. Maybe she would be less of a pest if she could show that she could do something so very special. Usually trouble ensued when she entered her sisters' rooms unbidden, but maybe this magical sparkle in her eyes would make it different this time.

Somewhere, deeper than her eleven year old self could really think, something whispered to her to keep this to herself. Just like it had four years ago, when, for the first time, she had petulantly slammed a toy into the wall without touching it. This was something that was to be kept to herself. This, she felt, was the truest thing she knew, and she would hold to it close, closer than her own life.

The moment passed, and she was again a child just playing in the mirror.

As it had been four years ago, her life would forever be changed.

**Sicily, 6 Years Later**

Sicily lay on her bed, leaning against the headboard that nearly vibrated with the indistinguishable throb of the music in the adjoining room.

Inconvenienced but not quite annoyed – she was used to this, after all – she crawled to the doorway connecting her sister's room with her own and pried the sliding door open a thread-thin crack between which she could line up the knob on the speakers. Now this, she has to be careful – too hasty, and the knob would slip from her mental hold, the volume jumping low enough and fast enough that Lyla would reach over to hastily twist the control so that the sound back to where she liked it.

Sicily's eyes turned to the color of the edges of the sun, and the volume _crept _lower, then lower still. Lyla was too absorbed in whatever she was doing to even notice the gradual change. As usual. Sicily didn't know why Lyla kept the music so loud anyway, since she didn't seem to pay much attention to it. Then again, with music that appalling, it was a wonder that anyone could _really _listen to it. It was bad enough background noise without trying to make out whatever lyrics the artist had passionately bawled out.

With the neighboring music lowered to a level where Sicily felt her hearing was safe, she slipped back to her bed. She closed her eyes when her head touched the backboard, and a sharp sigh escaped through her nose.

It was times like these when she hated herself, _hated _her _gift_. What good was it for? Surely not for playing with objects around the house or tampering with trivial tasks to make herself more comfortable. If you had the power to change things – _any_thing – weren't you supposed to do it, to try and improve the miserable world? She wasn't sure, at least in her case. Never had it seemed to be the right time to use her skill in public (discreetly or otherwise), just as she could never work herself up to tell either her two sisters or single parent.

Society was forever pouring the message into the ears of the wide-eyed young that they were special, they were endless potential, they could _be _who they wanted to _be. _Well, Sicily wouldn't ever be any of that. She couldn't hope or desire to stand up and shine, for she felt she had no reason to. She wasn't special.

Oh, she didn't think herself a freak anymore, and that was good, if any good could come from that. She had gone through the real period of self-loathing when she was about fifteen, an age that had nearly crippled her. She'd had an average amount of friends, and family life wasn't that bad. It had simply been that she didn't feel like she had belonged there, or anywhere; she was living in a shadow of forced normalcy, like she could hope assimilate with the rest of them – 'normal' was a sweet word that she craved to apply to her own life.

Back when movies had been popular – the masses had recently and quite easily abandoned the old forms of entertainment for higher technology – she had watched a drama about the witch-hunts that had taken place throughout history, and she'd had to leave halfway through and bolt for the restrooms, sick to her stomach. She wasn't a witch. Was she?

That word wasn't one she liked to think of. 'Witch' was surely too primitive and sinister a description for what she had. Besides, sorcerers of old had the power of the earth to summon to their palms and the will to manipulate the forces of life. Sicily was ordinary in her own mind, nearly reclusive, and had no delusions of possessing any sort of power. Power was asserting yourself, showing the doubters so very wrong, and rising above any challenge; it was graceful, poignant, and confidant.

Sicily was none of those things.

Often, she felt as if she might have something wrapped up inside, some deeper semblance of perhaps being able to reach higher, to move mountains instead of just marbles. She felt like she should know how to do it – whatever _it _was. She was able to move small things, why not larger and larger things still? Should she not be able to topple an entire city if she wished? There were times like she felt she could, and her fingers tingled, her mind aching with the desire to use such potential power, but then the moments passed without incident, leaving her with disappointment and the lingering feeling that she should have been able to do…_something. _

How far could she push herself? That she also didn't know, and even after many times of experimentation, she was no closer to a definitive answer. Things like marbles and stereo knobs were easy, many tasks were harder, and other still were absolutely impossible. The last time she had tried to pinpoint her limit, she had ended up with and exhaustion-induced headache and her ancient oak wood dresser toppled on the floor, facedown and drawers splayed as if it had tried to break its fall. Thankfully no one had been home, leaving her with merely shame instead of some very strange explaining to do.

What was she meant for?

_What's wrong with me?_

The sheets beneath her tightening fingers began to crumple, and it was time to stop thinking.

Blinking at the steady glare that had brightened in between her eyes, she swung her legs to the floor and, after waiting for the blood to leave her heavy head, stood slowly. In equal slow-motion, her feet carried her to the door almost on their own. She had to touch the cool handle before her surroundings were her own and she felt she could leave the room without toppling over.

As she left, she opted to shut the door with her own hands instead of the color of her eyes; though the closing of her bedroom door was as practiced and natural as drawing breath, she didn't… _feel_ like doing it. Not that it felt wrong. It just didn't seem right. _That's what I get for thinking too hard. _Hopefully her subconscious wasn't going to make a thing out of this.

In want for something tastelessly normal, she automatically turned to her left to head for the kitchen.

The walk to their kitchen was really just down the stairs and an immediate turn left. Her mother, Lilly, sat at the round table, her eyes illuminated by the thin, translucent pad she held in her left hand while her right middle fingertip tapped and slid importantly. Her straight, enhanced-red hair was diligently seared and gelled to stay put, and so it did. Thinned and sculpted brows twitched at the sights on the screen, and Lilly showed no sign that she had noticed her daughter descending the stairs and entering the room.

Sicily located a clean glass and filled it from the sink, holding her breath until the bubbled dissipated, minimizing the smell and therefore the weird egg taste that had been there since they switched to city water. They had the water tested and it was safe to drink, so Lilly saw no reason to find the problem and get it fixed. Didn't her daughters see how hard she worked for their money, why couldn't they appreciate what they had, was water not good enough for them? So, they lived with odd water to avoid voices being raised. If there was anything Sicily actively avoided, it was conflict of any kind.

Her glass suddenly left her fingers, falling in a straight, slippery decent as if Sicily had never been holding it at all. At the resounding thud and wave of water that reared onto the floor, Lilly leapt from her place a t the table, her voice loud and accusing, but her words indistinct.

Confused, Sicily bent down to retrieve the unbroken glass, but her knees refused to complete the action, buckling. She gripped the counter to hold herself up, an action that almost immediately morphed into merely clutching at it to slow her inevitable decent towards the floor.

She slid down with her back against the cupboards below the sink. She just… needed to sit down. She frowned, the motion barely creasing her brow, her blinks slow. Her mouth hung open as she drank in strangely trembling breaths that grew increasingly closer together.

Her eyes squeezed together at the corners, and the room ceased to be in focus, then cleared, then blurred beyond recognition.

She trembled and raised her hands to feel for her throat, to relieve the tightness there. Inhaling induced a slow burn that tore at the soft tissue of her lungs, and every exhale was involuntarily cut short to keep the pain at bay.

Her mother rushed for her, a pink smudge across her vision. She bent down and gripped Sicily's upper arms. There was yelling again, but it sounded as if it were trying to reach Sicily under water. Stop it, stop it. Like a drugged bear, Sicily swung her club-like hands, trying to get her mother to stop. She just wanted to close her eyes.

It hurt. Everything hurt.

Her sister ran down the stairs. She thought it was her sister. Her eyes had started to fill with tears, dulling all pain she might have felt there.

The watery, glowing face of her mother disappeared between blinks, fading, fading, then lighting bright again. Shapes began to decline to pits in a white backdrop. Black became less of a color as an all-consuming, welcoming sensation.

Movements slowed, toiling through whatever sloughed consciousness she had left. Her arms ceased struggling.

Her last exhale would not have been enough to disturb the soft flame of a candle.

Once more, her eyes warmed to a ring of gold, then faded to an unearthly grey.

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**You know what's coming next... Feedback, I need ****_feedback! _****You all have surely noticed that gorgeous, handy, shiny new review box that's been set up. Don't be afraid to use it - it's painless, I assure you. :)**


	2. To Sleep, to Dream

It's happened. I've done what I promised myself I would never do: I posted a first chapter and just let it sit there for... *gulp* months. At this point, even if you've read the first chapter before, you should probably go back and read it again; even _I _hardly remember what happened! Well, I give you my sincerest apologies and just pray that I won't even let myself do that again. :P

* * *

**When she was just a girl**

** She expected the world**

**But it flew away from her reach**

**So she ran away in her sleep**

**And dreamed of [paradise] every time she closed her eyes**

Coldplay – _Paradise_

* * *

Warm, pleasantly warm light caressed Sicily's face. She woke up slowly, calmly, her breathing deep and rhythmic. Blankets, heavy but not stifling, lay curled around her body just the way she liked it. It was quiet.

_Ahh… _She never got to sleep in like this, wake up like this. Undisturbed, peaceful…

She blinked, her lids still closed. Something didn't feel right.

And it all came back to her.

Her eyes flew open and struggled to take in her surroundings as quickly as possible while she pushed herself to an upright position, levering her arms on the sides of the foreign bed she seemed to be in. All she caught was a distorted haze of grey and sunlit illumination before her elbows buckled clumsily, sending her crashing back to the surface beneath her. Her cry was cut short by the need to suck in her breath when her head missed her pillow and connected with an unhindered _crack _to some hard beam. She curled her forearms around her head, disoriented and in pain.

There was a quick rustle and pad of feet. A cool hand pressed against her forehead and a whisper crossed her ears before all her senses gave up and sank into the recesses of her mind.

After that, she seldom woke and, and if she did, it was hard to distinguish form the dream world that held her captive. She spun from one dream to the next, scarcely able to comprehend the bizarre plot of one dream world before another took its place. To the outside world, her eyes flitted unceasingly beneath sweat-shiny lids, her jaw locked from things beyond just physical forces.

The few times she did awaken fully, she learned to long for sleep; her throat burned with the very breath she drew, and pain was no longer an abstraction that concentrated in one area. It hugged her body, every curve, every pore, and any thought that surfaced was consumed by it. It was fire, hot and white, and then cold as air before a snowfall. It was all she knew.

* * *

And she slept. Days and nights passed right over her, uncounted and, for now, unimportant. Brief and distressing awakenings were assuaged by a vague touch or a stranger's recitation of strange words.

As time went by, she slowly began to awaken – truly awaken. Her moments of consciousness were no less brief, but she was gently pulled back to sleep instead of viciously chased back by pain and bright lights behind her eyes.

Upon waking sometime during the night, she fluttered to the waking world and stayed there. She waited, eyes closed, prepared to drop to the pit once more, but it seemed she balanced on the edge, perhaps swaying a little, but balanced still. On a sudden impulse, she attempted to open her eyes. The world didn't even come into focus before she fell off the ledge and into sleep.

The next time she stirred, she had the presence of mind to realize that she was indeed awake, and she wanted to stay in the world of the living. Her eyes remained closed and her muscles loose, but she concentrated hard, determined not to scare off the elusive consciousness that she had recently so desperately tried to avoid.

Time passed and she remained awake, and gradually she began to wonder if she would be able to move. No – perhaps just speak. She opened her mouth wide enough to draw breath. _Still awake. _She then wondered what she could possibly say – what was there to say? Her name. That was simple enough. Her chest filled with a preparatory breath.

A thin squeak of air was all that came. She tried again, forgetting swiftly about staying calm and cool, all her energy poured into creating a syllable, a sound even. If she didn't have her speech… what could have possibly deprived her muscles of their memory required to create words? She wasn't sure if she could learn that all over. _Stop it. Concentrate. _

"Th…S-s…" The choppy, fragmented sound hurt her ears to the point of tears, and her head spun. She clenched her teeth to regain control of her thoughts and try again.

A soft rustling drew her wavering attention to the fact that someone was standing by her bedside, no doubt ready to send her back to sleep. And here Sicily couldn't say a word!

_No! Please, let me stay awake! I just want to stay awake, and I won't move, I promise – _

_I will not touch you, _a soft voice whispered. Or… didn't. Sicily knew she had understood the stranger's words, but wasn't sure she had _heard _them.

_Can you hear me? _There it was again.

Dumbly, Sicily nodded, her eyes still screwed shut.

_Do not worry; sight and speech will come in time. _

_Who are you? _Sicily wondered, unconvinced that she wasn't simply hallucinating.

_You are healing. Let your body heal. _

_Please – I don't – I can't… _help _me_.

The voice did not answer.

Determined, afraid, and suddenly frantic, Sicily's eyes flew open, desperate to see someone before her and know that she wasn't crazy. Her eyes did not make it open, and she dissolved into dark and dreams.

* * *

There was no way for Sicily to know how long since her last waking, but it felt shorter, as if she had slept through the night, not the past year. She began to register air moving through her lungs. She was able to twitch her fingertips without strain. Sounds floated around, indiscernible, but still in existence. She tuned those things out and focused only on her breathing. She was going to stay awake this time.

She was feeling very pleased with herself for keeping awake for the amount of time that she had, and she almost missed the subtle rustle that alerted her to a visitor.

_Can you speak to me? _

Sicily shook her head nervously. Maybe she could, but she didn't want to chance it. Not yet. _Maybe never. _

_You _will _be all right. Trust me. _

Sicily's arms moved slightly, defensively, more of a blind instinct than a conscious reaction. Someone was in her head, and she didn't like it.

_I can speak with you, if you will try yourself. _

Sicily wasn't even sure what to think. Maybe this person was reading her thoughts, but how could she keep _that _from happening? Keep her mind blank? Now that she thought about it – which was already thinking – was thinking about thinking, and by thinking –

_Say something to me, _the voice encouraged.

"I can't!" Sicily blurted, frustrated.

"There, see?" It was a female voice.

"I… I'm not going to open my eyes."

"I won't ask you to," the woman said gently. "Will you tell me your name?"

"I don't know who _you _are."

"No. You wouldn't remember my name if I told you; I don't want to tax you with trying."

"Your – your name… No, I mean, _you, _as in… the people who are keeping me here."

"No one is keeping you here. You live here. You've lived here for a while, while your body heals."

Sicily remembered. The kitchen, the water glass… It hadn't even crossed her mind for a very long time, or at least it _felt _like a long time. "I – d… I don't – I don't know what happened – what happened?" She tried to form a question, or perhaps it was a statement. She wasn't sure. The woman's voice and the strain of trying to answer her was getting Sicily all worked up and confused.

"You grow tired again. I must let you rest now." Sicily felt a hand on her forehead.

_No, wait, I don't want. I don't want – _

_"Onslæp ond bate…"_

Sicily only caught the first few whispered words before her eyes rolled back and her neck slackened, sending her back into that place where she knew nothing.

* * *

There came a time where she no longer heard the voice. There was still someone there, attending to her and listening to her for signs of distress, but they were silent. The silence made Sicily long to be able to see and take part in the world, to look upon faces and look at people when she spoke to them, and know where she was. After a long seclusion of only muffled sounds and voices in her head, she made up her that she would have to decide to live herself. No more waiting for someone to tell her she was well. She _felt _fine, and, well, that would have to be enough for now. She did, however wait until she felt she was alone to attempt getting up. To fail again and have to be forcefully sent back to sleep might tip her back into a self-deprecating sleep from which she would not be able to wake.

Or she was just paranoid. That might be it.

Either way, she decided to take it slow – just open her eyes a small crack. _There, that's it… _A small sliver of light touched on her eyes, and she stopped there to make sure nothing was spiraling out of control. It wasn't. The soft light was nothing but inviting, and though her eyes watered a bit at the outside air, she felt none of the crushing depths attempt to swoop in and drag her back. _Steady breathing. Deep, steady breaths. _

She laid there, eyes open, for the first time in well over a month. Of course, Sicily had no idea of the time passed, but she treasured her sight as if she did. Oh, she had missed it. Drinking in the glorious sensation of being able to see, she was finally able to look around her and discover she had been holed up for so long.

It seemed to be dome tent made of scrappy grey material draped over a shell of randomly woven twigs and branches. It was…beautiful, even cathedral-like in a way. Light whispered through the fabric, hindered by the supporting branches so that it sent down a pattern of light which, when Sicily looked down at the blanket that covered her legs, created a design that was anything but random.

The floor was dirt, and about six feet in diameter. She was lying on a cot off to one side, the only furniture in the tent, and the spaces around the edges appeared to be being used for storing small bundles – bedrolls, maybe?

She pushed the blanket down to her feet and kicked it off, preparing to swing her legs over the side and take a look around.

The tent flap moved. Just slightly, light enough that it may have been caused by the wind, but it was enough to make Sicily pause, instantly wary. Had that noise in the distance been there before? Someone must be coming - she wasn't sure if she was supposed to get up. When all was quiet for a moment, Sicily decided that there was nothing she could do but continue with her quest. With one eye on the door and her heart beating a little faster than it had before, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, her toes testing the ground before she put both feet down. _Stand up, in one…two…_

The tent flap flipped up and someone bustled in hurriedly, letting in a burst of cold air.

Sicily shrieked, and, without thinking, sent one of the packs strewn around the ground straight for the hooded figure.

Whoever it was spun around at the sound and flung their hand up with a startled cry of their own, stopping the bundle in midair. The roll hovered before their palm for a second, then succumbed to gravity and fell to the ground when the hand hesitated, drawing back towards their body. The hood was pulled back with two hands, revealing the shaken face of a girl no older than Sicily; in fact, she appeared younger, with her thin face and small hands. Her mouth opened, but Sicily couldn't hear anything but a ringing in her ears.

Sicily's chest was tightening and her heart pounding erratically. She wasn't sure if she was excited or terrified or a potent mixture of both. She tried to calm down, to slow her breathing and steady her chest, but once again, her body was overriding her commands and shutting down. Right before she lost her vision, she saw the girl rush to her side and take her wrists in a surprisingly strong grip, guiding her back into the cot.

When asleep, Sicily's subconscious crafted sights not like the ones before; instead, she now saw visions of a hooded girl with gold eyes.

* * *

A girl and a man watched Sicily's tent and the shadows that the trees cast upon it.

"How is she now?" he asked.

"Fine _now,_" mumbled the girl, appalled at herself for not being aware of the fact that Sicily had been awake.

The man nodded absently, his attention straying from the girl beside him. Rather, his thoughts were on the girl in the tent. She must be very strong indeed to use her gift so effectively so soon after being so weakened. Strong indeed…

The girl at his side said no more, but lapsed into pensive silence.

Looking down, the man realized her distress and put a hand to her shoulder. "If she went back to sleep, it was because her body was not ready, not the result of anything you did." His gaze flitted back to the tent in the shade. "When she is ready to waken, nothing will hold her back."


End file.
